


Fools Decide

by samalander



Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, Greece, Missionfic, Non-Graphic Violence, Spies & Secret Agents, UST, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-29
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 06:16:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samalander/pseuds/samalander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint and Natasha are playing newlyweds in Greece while they take down a mobster. It's easier to play than Clint thought it would be, and harder to let go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fools Decide

**Author's Note:**

> Possible trigger warning: there is a non-specific threat of sexual violence. Please use your discretion.
> 
> With thanks to Pixy, as always.
> 
> "In Greece wise men speak and fools decide." -George Santayana

The Mediterranean sun beats down on Clint's shoulders, and his towel is scratchy with sand beneath him, which he supposes is fitting, seeing as the beach is mostly made of sand, and if he stays on it long enough, maybe he'll become sand, too, and be able to feel like a part of something infinite.

Natasha moves almost silently across the beach, but he feels her approach in the shift of the air around him, the way she orients her back to the sun so she's backlit gloriously when he looks up.

She hands him the sweating can of Coke - sweet, European Coke, full of real sugar and everything - and he grins up at her. 

"You can come sit under the umbrella," she tells him, stepping over his prone form to settle into her chair, where she checks the gun she taped to the bottom of it before she kicks off her flipflops.

"I like the sun," he says, and she raises an eyebrow.

"If you burn," she starts, and it's the fifth time she's given him the speech today, the one about how she'll mock him, so he puts his head back down, raises his middle finger high, and resumes his quest to become a giant freckle.

Children run by them, laughing and poking sticks at the wayward jellyfish, lost on the beach, before they bury them in the sand to die. Clint feels bad for the things, small and helpless and smothering, but not enough that he can do much more than care. It's a lazy day, a lovely lazy day in Greece, and he has no intention of saving anything.

Natasha pays the man who rents her umbrella another two Euro, and Clint flips over, shading his face with a newspaper they bought before remembering that they're tourists, and they're not supposed to know Greek on this trip.

Natasha waits until he falls asleep, and uses sunscreen to write her name over his heart.

* * *

They head back to the hotel when the sun begins to set over the sea, and if Clint is a little more pink than he planned, he has no intention of telling Natasha. 

Nor of asking her why there's a shadow of a word across his clavicle, not while he still has the edible imprint of her skin on his corneas, the way she flashed him a smile as they walked back from the beach and her sarong slipped on her hips, revealing the long paradise of her thigh.

He loves Greece.

They're playing newlyweds, which is one of his favorite things to play with Natasha, on assignment or off, and they decide that, before they head to the club their mobster mark is running, they'll need to make some kind of appearance at dinner, to smile and pretend to be in love in front of the other hotel patrons.

He downs a glass of sticky-sweet peach nectar with dinner, which is some kind of rooster stew that he barely tastes because Natasha is playing her part to the hilt, full of batted eyelashes and lingering touches and he curses a world where she doesn't love him like that, where this is all just a game to her.

They take a walk after dinner, laughing and carrying their shoes down the beach towards the rocks, towards the little tide pools where the crabs and minnows live, next to the ruins they found of an old guard tower, now just a circle of stone on an outcropping. She trips once, and he catches her, which is weird because Natasha never trips, but she lets herself fall into his arms this time. Their eyes meet, like stars falling, and it's all Clint can do to keep from dragging her back to the room, saying fuck the mission and letting himself take what he wants from her, seeing what she'll give, but she's got something in her face, and he hears the footsteps a moment later, another couple coming up the beach.

They're older, the others, and they give a knowing look to Clint and Natasha. The old man actually winks at Clint, which, weird. Natasha laughs like silvery bells at something he didn't say, and takes his hand again when the coast is clear.

He knows that, more than a walk, this is recon, but she's wearing a ring on her right hand and it's smooth and cold against his skin and for a moment he forgets to keep an eye on the lights ahead of them as they approach the club at the other end of the beach. He gives in and just thinks about what it would be, what his life could be like, if he'd stayed in the Secret Service and not taken Fury's offer, if she'd been a normal girl and not a spy, if they had the kind of life that he swore he wanted when he was a kid.

He admits, in a tiny corner of his mind, that he would be bored as fuck.

She slips her shoes on as they reach the road, and so does he, striding up to the club hand-in-hand, tourists and newlyweds to the hilt. They've been here every night for a week, putting on the same show of a couple of young people who just want to dance and get lost in each other.

They get in no problem every time, and Clint wonders how much Natasha's hemline has to do with it, and how much can be chalked up to them playing patsies.

Inside is dark and loud and smoky, the perfect atmosphere for clandestine dealings or dancing, whichever is on the menu tonight. He feels the eyes on him immediately, the men who work for their mark, a man called Latsis, the ones who have been getting closer and closer every night, the ones who blatantly ogle Natasha, and compliment him on his "prize." He hates them, but he's willing to wait for their ends. This is the long game, it's always a long game in his line of work.

He shoots the bartender an obvious wink and orders an appletini for Natasha and a club soda for himself. As Clint, he doesn't drink, which can be hard on missions sometimes, but after seeing the mess of his parents in the morgue, seeing what his father became when he drank, Clint vowed never to even tempt himself. It's the only rule that crosses from Clint to every persona, and it has yet to cause him trouble.

She scowls at the vividly green concoction when it comes, but gamely takes a sip, her dark pink lipstick leaving a smudge on the glass as she pulls away. Clint laughs so he doesn't do something he regrets, and when she sets the drink down, she grabs his hand and drags him to the floor.

Natasha dances like she means it, and Clint thinks that if it were anyone else, he'd call it a tease, but it's Natasha so he calls it acting, how she grinds into his erection, making him likely to come in his pants for the first time in 20 years. Whatever game they're playing, Natasha cheats.

He loses track of time, the blinking lights and the music, the slide of her body against his, and when the man approaches, Clint almost forgets to be startled. He wonders who teaches these kids stealth, that they think sidling up to a person is covert.

The man is youngish, mid- to late-twenties, with skin baked olive by the island sun, and a thin mustache that makes Clint think of Jimmy Buffet songs and John Waters.

He asks Clint if he can cut in, and Clint knows what this is. This is the seduction, the part where the man, who has had his eye on Natasha the whole time they've been dancing (and that's the point of the dancing, honestly) offers her more money than her character would see in a lifetime to sleep with him, or his boss, or a friend.

They know that this is how it goes because this cartel is not particularly original, but Natasha still plays the part, she's still a pro, and when the man whispers in her ear after the dance is done, she shoots Clint a look that would read "Oh my god, help!" to any bystander, but to Clint it's a message. She's in.

* * *

Clint and Natasha have a fuming fight just outside the door, and the bouncer pretends not to notice. She wants to do it, for the money and because her character is just a little vain and a lot insecure, and his character is jealous and angry, but greedy and weak, and they've had this scripted for weeks. It takes twenty minutes, but eventually, he gives in.

She heads back in, still pretending to be a little upset about the fight. Clint can hear her breathing in his comm as he stalks away from the club, planning to double back and take a defensive position in the building across the street, on the roof where he built a sniper nest earlier in the week.

He talks to her as he walks, tells her where he is, so she doesn't feel so alone. When they met the first time, when she was just ashes in the inferno she'd built, she confessed that it was hard for her to care about anything when there was no one to care about.

Clint had sworn, when they became partners, that she'd never have to face that again. And so he describes the low white buildings and the cobbled streets and the pink pelican sleeping by the wharf to keep her grounded, to keep her caring.

Her breathing is steady, she's calm. This cartel operates a drug trade with tourists as mules, and they do a fair amount of human trafficking, which is why Latsis has to die, and why SHIELD has to burn his empire to the ground when he does. And Natasha might be a pro, she might be well schooled in seduction and interrogation, but she's not immune to bullets or drugs, and if this goes wrong in any way, it could be the end of things. Clint doesn't want to think about what he'll do if Natasha gets threatened with human trafficking, doesn't care to imagine how many worlds he would raze to bring her back.

He hears the muffled voices of the others in the room with Natasha, tries to pick out Latsis's northern lilt, which is so distinct from the Greek of the islands.

And there it is, the voice of the hour, switching into English to explain to Natasha that while she is beautiful, and he would love to have her in his bed, he wonders if maybe she wouldn't prefer a different job...? 

Clint marvels at Natasha's innocence, the way she slips naivety into her voice, the way she remembers to talk about her new husband and what would he feel, and then, when Latsis brings out the money to show her, he hears her breath catch at the sight of the folded Euro. He imagines the stripes of pink on the bills, the crisp rows of 500 Euro notes tucked in a briefcase like a mafia movie.

"Tell me when you are leaving the island," Lastis breathes in Natasha's ear, and Clint feels his hands clench on his bow because that means Lastis is _close_ to Natasha, close enough for his words to echo through the comm.

She tells him, gives all the information he needs, Once he delivers the goods, once they have proof of his misdeeds, he can get a bullet in the brain, but that's two days from now and Clint feels an itch in his fingers - he's desperate to kill this fucker. Even if he can't see him, he can hear his breath and he knows he must be nearly on top of Natasha.

"You could double it," Lastis tells her, and now Clint _is_ going to kill him, but Natasha takes it is stride, naive and innocent.

And then something happens. Clint hears the breaking of bones, the yelp of pain, the four-five-six-seven shots which are inaudible over the music from the club for anyone not wearing a comm, and then Natasha is in his ear.

"Lastis is dead," she tells him. "And the four guys in the room. Meet me out back, and call Coulson. We need out."

* * *

He meets her behind the club, where she's hotwired a car to get them to the extraction point. Now that the mark is dead, it's time for wetworks to come in and clean up the mess. They have the recording of the conversation in Lastis's office, which is enough. They don't have the drugs, but Fury will make due.

Natasha explains what happened as he drives up the mountainside; Lastis grabbed her breast, hard, and when she slapped him, she saw the murder in his eyes. It was kill or be killed, and she broke his arm for good measure.

Clint doesn't judge her, and doesn't think anyone else will, either. Women in their line of work have to use their bodies a lot more than men, but that doesn't erase the line of consent; Natasha made a call, and he backs her up. Better to have a dead gangster and an angry spy than a live gangster on trial and a spy who needs to be healed from an assault.

Though, if Lastis _had_ hurt her, Clint would have killed him before it got that far.

He doesn't say anything in response to her story, just wraps his hands around the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white and stares straight ahead. Neither of them speak as they climb to their destination, but she fiddles with the wedding ring that isn't hers, the one that matches the one he wears.

They have an hour before the chopper comes to evacuate them and Natasha wants to stretch her legs, so they get out of the car and Clint sets about destroying it, making it look like a random crime as he slashes seats and tosses the owner's belonging around. He feels briefly sorry for doing it, but it's just a car, just a CD collection, and it's not like they're burning this one, so the poor bystander will get something back.

When he's done he sees Natasha, about 30 yards away, leaning against a tree that he thinks is a laurel, or maybe a cyprus. She's staring straight ahead, barely moving, and when he approaches she stays still until he's in arm's length.

She turns to him then. He always forgets how short she is in comparison to him until they're standing face to face - she's so strong, and so powerful, that it's easy to forget that she's 5'4" on a good day, small enough for him to fold up and put in his pocket.

He wants to say a thousand things; wants to tell her he'd never let anyone hurt her, that he cares about her, that she's special to him. But there isn't enough time, there isn't enough air, and even if there were, he's not sure he knows the words.

She reaches for his hand and he lets her take it, their fingers interlacing like an embrace.

"Clint, I--" she starts, but he thinks maybe she doesn't have the words, either, for whatever it is that she wants to tell him, because she stops and looks at him, her eyes glinting with moonlight. For once, he doesn't know what she's thinking, he can't read the thought off her face.

She turns away, but she doesn't let go of his hand for the hour that they wait in silence so thick he can see it.

When the chopper comes, the beating of the blades still distant, she releases her grip and smiles at him.

"Thank you," she says, and if he's imagining the strand of love in her voice, or whatever passes for love between people like them, than he imagines he can be forgiven. 

Smiling, he drapes an arm across her shoulders and pulls her to his side. Her skin is soft under his hand, she's warm against him, and it doesn't escape either of them, he knows, that they're still wearing their borrowed rings.

"Where shall we go next?" he asks, and she sighs.

"Home," she says, without all the caveats that come with such a word.

He nods, neglecting to tell him that his home is right here, with her, because that's a schmaltzy thing to say, and an absurd thing to feel. "You got one of those?" he asks.

"Six or seven."

The chopper is almost overhead now, beginning its descent, and there's too much noise for conversation. He knows that as soon as it lands and they're on it, they'll begin the trip back to who they are in their day-to-day lives, leaving this newlywed couple behind for good.

He leans in gently and brushes his lips against her forehead, fixing his resolve to not ask for more even if she smells too good for words.

She doesn't stiffen or lean in, she just lets him kiss her. And then the chopper lands, and they climb in, and she slips the ring off her finger and hands it to Coulson, who smiles and holds his hand out for Clint's.

He slides it off his finger, and he feels the loss acutely, if only because he has a thin white tan line where it was, a memory of this week and the things he doesn't have.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Greater Compliment](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1265962) by [cassandraoftroy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassandraoftroy/pseuds/cassandraoftroy)




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